<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Perfection by Anonymous</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26854582">Perfection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Anon works [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:08:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26854582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They said he was perfect. He didn't believe them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Anon works [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Perfection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Perfection. He was the living being of perfection. At least that's what they all said.</p><p>*****</p><p>It was 1:34 in the morning. He was tired. So tired. But he couldn't close his eyes. He wouldn't. He didn't want to see the memories that would crowd his mind the second his eyes shut. He didn't want to remember all his mistakes. He didn't want to be reminded how much of a failure he was. He didn't want to think of all the instances where people became fed up with his loudness. With him. He didn't want to see it again. He threw the blanket off himself and headed to his computer. </p><p>*****</p><p>It was 4:00 in the afternoon. He hadn't moved from his bed at all. He felt so lonely. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to tell someone all the feelings inside that tore his mind to shreds. How he could feel himself slowly losing control. How he felt so alone in the world. Why wouldn't anyone talk to him? Was he such a nuisance? He curled further under the blanket in shame. He shouldn't be thinking like this. It was bad. He knew this. He was taught that this type of thinking was bad. And yet, he couldn't help himself. A laugh escaped him. He really was a failure. </p><p>*****</p><p>It was 8:34 in the evening. He felt so useless. He hadn't even started on editing or anything at all. He felt like such a waste. So much work to do, so many expectations. Why did so many think so highly of him? Why did they keep putting him on a pedestal? Why was He praised so often for such simple things? Why did everyone keep looking at him? He hadn't even done anything. His work was sitting before him and he didn't do anything. He just sat there staring. He could feel the disappointment from everyone already. It made him sick. He looked at his thigh. </p><p>*****</p><p>It was 2:42 in the morning. He couldn't sleep. He looked at his phone and clicked on the messaging app. He hovered over the recent contact before recalling their conversation earlier. A lump formed in his throat and he shut his phone off. He threw it away from him and got up. Pain shot up through his thigh and shame courses through him. The pain was a reminder of what he'd done hours earlier. He wondered what his friends would say if they saw him. Would they yell at him again? Would they make fun of him? Would they chase him away? He clutched his thigh and looked at the sharp little blade resting on his desk. He took a step forwards.</p><p>*****</p><p>It was 5:00 in the afternoon. He was staring at his computer again. So much work to be done. So little motivation. The work he once found fun was no longer fun. It was tiring to just look at it. He didn't want to do it anymore. But he had too. They all expected him too. He had to meet their expectations. He didn't want to be called a failure anymore. </p><p>*****</p><p>It was 5:24 in the morning. The sun was going to rise soon. He wanted to see it. See it one more time.</p><p>*****</p><p>It was 12:23 in the afternoon. He picked up his phone and shut it off. He placed it on his desk face down and looked around his room. It was dirty. Weeks of trash littered the place. He began cleaning. </p><p>*****</p><p>It was 7:56 in the morning. He picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number. It didn't ring once before it was answered. </p><p>"Dream? How are you? Have you been okay? You haven't been answering our calls at all!"</p><p>He felt his chest constrict.</p><p>"Dream please answer. Please let me hear your voice."</p><p>He felt everything inside him break free from the confines and spill out. He let out an ugly sob and sank to the floor. He heard the panic in the other's voice and he cried even harder. </p><p>"I'm not okay. I need help. Please."</p><p>*****</p><p>He opened his eyes. He slowly sat up in bed and looked at the time. 8:57. He looked away from the clock and at himself. He was dirty. He was ugly. He was a failure. He didn't deserve to even dream of help. He was no one. He raised his head and stared at the wall. Another useless day. He'd just do the same thing he's done for the weeks. Nothing</p><p>*****</p><p>He looked at the blade on his desk. The dim lighting made it shimmer. It looked like a gift from God. He reached for it. Everything became quiet as he focused solely on the blade. He couldn't hear nor see anything else. He couldn't hear the phone going off. He couldn't hear the worried voices of his family from outside his room. He couldn't see the way his wrist had become bony. </p><p>He ran his finger over the blade and smiled. His face hurt from the action. But he didn't care. He picked up the blade and brought it to his wrist. Without hesitation, he sliced the skin</p><p>*****</p><p>Imperfection. He was the living being of imperfection. He had so many flaws. At least that's what he said.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>